Arya in Minutes
by Bunzai
Summary: Vignettes from the folk of Westeros. Mostly about Arya.
1. Rescue

Blood is pouring from the walls of Winterfell. There is a war raging, steel hitting steel, steel piercing flesh. The boy is running, he carries his sword and tries to look fearsome but he knows he was never good with a sword. That was Arry's place, sword in hand. Arya, his mind corrects.

He runs. His best chance is to avoid the savage fighting in the yard. He follows a band of men into the tower.

They're cut down before him and for a moment he thinks a sword is bound for his neck until he stumbles on the limbs of the fallen and the sword takes his shoulder. The wound is not deep but he drops his weapon and closes his eyes waiting for the next hit. Instead a force hits his body and he finds himself falling, the dead weight of his would-be killer atop of him, an arrow in his eye.

He's trapped under the body. He thinks of giving up, of yielding, but then thinks of his friend. Arya, he remembers correctly. He's come to rescue him, her, his friend. He will not leave her, not this time.

He pushes the body aside and starts to run again. Up the steps, he fears no ghosts of Winterfell. He doesn't know how but he ends up outside her door. Men are still fighting, the door is shuddering and they are about to break it free.

It cracks and the noise resonates in his skull. Armed men gush from the room. He's pushed back by the flood and finds himself falling down the stairs. So close, he laments. He's hurt, his shoulder throbbing and his bravery has left him. He pulls himself into a dark corner of the castle.

There is movement beside him and he turns. A girl with dirty brown hair has her eyes closed, body shaking.

"Arya" he whispers, his heart beats faster. Has he found her?

"Arya, its me, Hot Pie. I've come to save you."

Jeyne Poole opens her eyes and stares at the boy in horror.


	2. Bran

Bran looks outside his window, watching the snow fall gently on the grounds of Winterfell. Winter is coming, he hears a familiar voice in his mind.

A wolf howls, it is not Shaggydog or Summer, but he thinks he recognizes the sound from long ago. He moves himself closer to the window, the cold wind chills his skin but he's focused on the woods and the wolves. There are two, he knows. He thinks he could join them, slip his skin and run in the woods, but something tells him no. It's not his place, not today. He doesn't belong in the woods with them in this moment.

Bran waits and watches. He hears them but sees nothing. He waits some more. Patient, he knows how to be patient.

Then a flash of white fur, a howl, grey and white blurs are racing along the outskirts of the woods. The large white wolf is bounding, two strides to the right, pivot, and two strides to the left. Bran cannot see his eyes but he can feel the excitement, the thrill of the chase, the fun.

Behind a grey wolf bounds, it's smaller but only just, it follows the white wolf. Three strides right, pivot, growl, and three strides left.

The wolves dance, running in circles, the white wolf bears its teeth but not in anger, the grey wolf does the same and he things there may be a bit more anger in that one.

He's been holding his breath, he learns. He breathes out, mist filling the air. He watches it, sees it disappear in the winter evening and then his eyes focus on the wolves again. There's a yelp, a growl and then the grey one howls. Long, hard, cold. The sound fills his ears, flows through him and settles in his heart.

The wolves run off, deep into the woods, deeper into the winter. Bran sits at his window, and thinks of Jon and Arya and hopes they have finally found peace.


	3. Dragon

His door creaks as it's pushed open slowly. Ghost lifts his head and sniffs the air, decides this person is no threat and rolls over.

Jon can feel something slip in behind him and half his covers are pulled from him.

"I thought you weren't scared of dragons?" he whispers, he looks over his shoulder and sees her huddled up tight with her back to him.

Earlier that night Old Nan had been telling them a story about a black dragon that had terrorized villages in the South and it wasn't until a team of knights from all over Westeros had come together that he was defeated. Rickon had started to cry during talk of the battle and Arya had admonished him. "Dragons aren't scary, hush yourself," she had said.

"I'm not" she replies stubbornly.

"No I suppose you're not." He says in a tone that irritates her.

"Just careful." She explains. He raises an eyebrow and though she can't see his look in the darkness she explains.

"If there were dragons, they'd be real hungry and all. A big dragon would have a big hunger, and he'd eat the biggest, fattest sheep he could find."

It takes him a moment to understand.

"Am I the big fat sheep?" he asks, and he can picture the smirk on her face.

"It was you or Hodor," she says as she drifts to sleep.

"How very knightly of me…" he turns back. He's not that bothered. He thinks of it as his brotherly duty and is secretly a little happy she came to him instead of Robb.

In the early morning he wakes from the cold, his covers are gone and his back aches from the way he's tried to squeeze himself onto the edge of his bed. She lays behind him, arms and legs outstretched, covers strewn over her. So much for brotherly duty, he thinks, next time its Robb's turn.


	4. Ned

Ned remembers, a few months after Arya's birth he sat with her on his knee in the great hall. Cat was seeing to Sansa in her chambers, Robb and Theon were in the kitchens and Jon had moved himself a little closer to Ned. The babe in his arms had seen him and despite not yet fully understanding the world around her she'd reached for him with chubby arms.

"Would you like to hold her boy?" Ned had asked. Jon shook his head. The babe in his arms stared.

"I think she likes the look of you. Here boy, hold her, you won't harm her I promise." He saw Jon glance at the doorway. He knew what he was worried about. Should Cat come in and find him with her young one she would not approve. Not approve at all.

"She'll be gone a while yet, Sansa never sleeps till she hears the end of a story." He stood from his chair and gently pushed the girl into the boy's arms. Jon took her with gentle shaking hands.

"See there boy, no trouble at all."

Arya stared wide-eyed at her brother. Her chubby little hands closing around his thumb. Jon Snow smiled, and so did Ned.

Then there were noises outside the door and he looked at Ned in dismay. Ned reached down to take the baby and Jon moved himself closer to the door.

Catelyn walked in, pausing to give a curt look to Jon before moving to take her seat next to Ned.

"Is she well?" she asked.

"Aye, she is well." He said, noticing how the babe's eyes watched Jon Snow leave the hall.

* * *

Snow. It was among Arya's first words. The child had whispered it whilst batting her hand toward the falling white powder out in the yard.

"Yes! Snow, and tree and wall" the Septa had said to the child, pointing to such things out the window.

"Mother and Father," the Septa continued, pointing to Ned.

"Snow" the girl said again, hand pointing towards the yard.

"She is a Stark this one. How long till she tells us winter is coming?" the Septa asked him. Ned laughed. It wasn't until the next day, standing in the same room he spied Jon Snow leading his horse to the stable. It was the same route he usually took everyday, save the day before when he had not ridden at all.

* * *

On the grounds of Winterfell snow is flying everywhere, like archers arrows on the field of war. Half his children are camped behind a wagon. Sansa and Rickon are rolling snowballs for Robb and Bran. With careful aim they throw icy death towards Theon, Jon and Arya.

"I yield!" Theon yells and steps from a snow bank they have used as cover. He walks, hands in the air towards the enemy.

"Turn cloak!" Arya shouts and prepares another snowball.

"We're outnumbered, we have less arms, we're tired. By all sense we should retreat." Jon tells Arya.

"This is a battle not a war." She tells him, brow furrowed, eyes glowing. He smiles.

"Winterfell!" they both yell as the leap from their cover. It's a pitiful effort, and soon Jon is shielding Arya from a storm of snowballs.

He sees it then and he wonders if anyone else has. His youngest daughter is drawn to Jon Snow. Perhaps she shares more than just look and temper with Lyanna. And Jon is drawn to her because she seems to offer him the acceptance and love that even Ned himself cannot give.

Maybe, he thinks, if the gods have their ways, this is how his sister will know her son.


	5. Brienne

Brienne packs little. Not because she is not hungry, but because she can still feel the knot around her neck, squeezing like a serpent would squeeze the tiny bones of a mouse. To eat she must force the food down, every swallow a painful reminder.

So she packs little food but several daggers, a helm and some broken chainmail. She does not pack rope.

As she finishes she settles the bags on her horse and secures it, pausing when she hears fast footsteps heading towards the barn.

Touching the dagger in her waistband she turns with her hand on her sword.

"You're going to find her?" The smith is there. It's the first time she has seen him since the Inn and her trial. He's breathing heavily, like he's been running. His black hair is wet and sticky from the rain outside and there is mud from his waist to his feet.

Brienne eyes him warily; his blue eyes, Renly's eyes, burning holes through her.

"I swore an oath. I will return Sansa Stark to her mother." The weight of her words feel heavy upon her. She wonders if he understands, what an oath means to her. So many have not, but Renly did. And she thinks Jamie knows now.

"And Arya." he says. He looks her up and down from head to toe. A time ago she may have blushed when blue eyes gazed at her as he did. In his eyes she saw no scorn or glee, no embarrassment or pity. She only saw a gentle kind of hope.

"And Arya Stark" she nods. If the girl is alive she will find her.

"Good." He wants to say more, she can tell, but he clenches his jaw, nods, turns and walks back into the rain.

It's not till three days later does she think of him again. His heavy breathing amongst rain and sweat. The hope in his eyes when he said the young Stark's name and the pain in them as he turned and left. It seems he too understands what an oath means.


	6. Small little things

"Don't be scared, I wont hurt you." Arya said to a small girl hiding herself behind a tree trunk.

She was a strange little thing, half feral with short knotty hair and ratty clothes. The girl who could only be about five or six had stumbled upon Arya dispatching two men who thought they could rob and rape the young Stark as she made her way across the Riverlands. But Arya was not the little girl she had been, her years in Braavos had built her strong and quick.

"Not!" The girl growled in a strange kind of voice as she moved from behind the tree. Her eyes stared for a long time at Arya's face and then she bit her lip and stared at the hand holding Needle.

It unnerved Arya but she saw and felt no threat in the girl and could hear no one else hiding in the woods. She bent down to the two corpses and started emptying their pockets. She found two dragons, a copper and a small knife with a pearl handle. She offered the knife to the little girl, holding the blade side in the palm of her hand.

"Small girls should not be wondering the Riverlands alone." Arya warned. She knew all too well.

The tiny thing took the knife but moved no further. Arya shrugged and picked up a stale oatcake from the mud. She had been riding an old grey mare, eating the oatcake, the last of her reserves, when two men had come charging from the forest. Her horse was not made for battle and when she dismounted the craven thing had bolted during the fight. She had thrown the oatcake at it in disgust but now regretted it. Her stomach turned, begging for food. She had not eaten at all that day.

The small girl heard her stomach protest and raised her head. She mimed the act of eating with her little hands and started walking back from where she came. Arya watched her go but understood when the girl stopped and motioned her to follow.

With one last glance down the road her horse had bolted she sighed. "Craven horse anyway" she muttered.

They wound their way through thick brush; sometimes the weeds and grass were so high the little girl disappeared among them. She scampered like a rat around rocks and ditches. Arya kept up well enough though. They travelled like that for a while and sometimes the girl would turn back to make sure Arya was following.

When they finally came upon a clearing she could see the remains of an old farmers home. The main quarters were burnt to ashes but the stables were barred up tight and looked livable. The girl held her palm up, and shook her head.

Arya paused, regarding the home with a careful eye before standing with her arms crossed. She wasn't going to follow if that's what the girl was worried about.

"Is this your home?" Arya asked.

The little girl bit her lip and scurried into the stable.

Arya frowned at the familiar action but waited.

After a time the girl returned, carrying with her a heavy offering wrapped in dirty cloth and tied off with a knot. She thrust the gift at Arya and smiled for the first time. Her teeth were crooked and her gums dark, as if she'd been chewing on bark or dirt.

Arya unwrapped the bundle and counted a half-dozen apples and stale crusts.

Shaking her head she handed back the bag of apples and bread. "I don't need to steal. If this isn't your home say so now". But the girl growled and pushed the food back.

"You, mine, give." She said in her strange voice. It sounded as if she'd never spoken before, each word like a squeak across her lips.

The elder girl gave in and bit her lip and the tiny thing smiled again.

"Are you okay here, do you have family around? It's not safe, not in these times." Arya did not like the idea of the girl wandering alone. Even she was twice her age when she'd started her long journey all those years ago.

The girl nodded and turned towards the stables, making a long whistling noise that went around the clearing. Arya looked to the stable and saw a faint shadow moving into the sunlight. An old woman with a hunched back and a limp. She could not fight off robbers or rapers but she must have a few secrets if she'd survived here this long.

Still though. "You have the knife?" Arya asked the girl. With a deft hand the child brought the blade from under her clothes and crinkled her nose in delight. Arya smiled wearily. "Swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow, fear cuts deeper than swords."

"Th…an…k" the girl tried her hardest to sound out the words, moving her lips wide and begging Arya with her soft brown eyes to understand. She didn't though and the strange little rat girl smiled her crooked smile again and scurried off. As Arya watched her skip stones and branches on her way to the stable she thought she moved not like a rat but more like a weasel.


	7. Eye for Eye

They sit among the acorn trees counting squirrels that run from trunk to trunk. They've been there for a while now. Gendry's seen two and Arya swears she's seen three but nothing has moved since the sun began to set.

"I could have killed him," she says breaking the silence between them.

"The Hound would have cut you in two" Gendry argues with a grin and ducks as an acorn flies past his head.

"Not the Hound," she growls. "Joffrey, I could have killed Joffrey"

"I don't think even Jaqen H'ghar could have gotten to Joffrey." As he says the name of the red-haired man Gendry frowns. He doesn't like speaking of Jaqen H'hgar. There was a reason Yoren would not let him walk with the others.

The Nights Watch, once mighty, now full of nothing but rapers and thieves. He supposes if they'd made it to the wall they would have been brothers. Jaqen, Hot Pie, Lommy, even Rorge and Biter. The thought makes him shiver.

"No" Arya is angry but not with him. He knows this because she doesn't try to hit him again. Just sits and watches the leaves on the acorn tree sway.

"Back when we left Winterfell, and travelled with the Queen. Joffrey attacked Mycah and Nymeria bit him. I threw his sword into the water but I should have killed him with it." Her small hands are clenched by her sides. She's got that look she gets when she goes inside her head. He shudders to think what's in there. The violence in her seems to grow as she does.

"And then what" he asks. "They would have killed you and maybe your Lord father anyway." She doesn't think about things sometimes. But he does.

"But he'd be dead." She whispers as if it would solve it all. Maybe she really is willing to die so long as Joffrey dies too.

He doesn't think that's fair. He doesn't want her to die, not even if it meant the death of Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound, the Mountain and the Tickler.

He doesn't know how to tell her that though. So he picks up an acorn and throws it at her. Her gaze is ripped from the leaves and she looks at him in shock before smirking and making for the acorns by her feet.


	8. The Hound

**Also known as three times Arya and the Hound end in silence.**

* * *

1.

She's skipping stones across the lake whilst she waits for the Hound to relieve himself somewhere off the road. The tiny pebbles bounce, three or four times before sinking into the water. Jon and Robb had taught her how to hold the little rocks between her thumb and forefinger and then hurl them sideways so they tumbled and rolled over the water. Robb had been able to skip a stone all the way to the other side of the lake in the Wolfswood. She'd almost done it once but her rock had sunk two skips away from the bank.

Hearing the Hounds footsteps returning she picks up her last rock. A heavy one. Maybe she could skip this one all the way to Kings Landing and knock Joffrey's pretty little head off. She heaves her arm back and is about to throw when another stone shatters the surface of the water.

She turns to see the Hound standing behind her.

"Useless games" he growls and drops the rock he was holding in his other hand.

Arya wants to laugh at him. Call him stupid and mock his throw. Instead she picks up a pebble and walks to him.

"The rock was too big." She says and hands him the pebble. He glares at her and throws the pebble away.

"Bugger off little wolf girl or I'll throw the next one at your head." He starts walking back to Stranger but Arya picks up another pebble and tucks it in his hand. For a moment when her hand touches his she notices the roughness, his big hands are calloused from the sword much like her fathers were.

"Grip it between your finger and your thumb and throw it. Like a side swing of an axe or sword." she instructs.

He glares at her but faces the lake and flings the pebble. It skips three times before sinking.

For an instant the corner of his mouth turns up slightly and she finds her own face betraying her. They watch the ripples settle in the water and when the surface is as still as stone he grunts.

"Useless games." He repeats and walks back to Stranger.

* * *

2.

"A drink for me and my son here" he bellows. The serving girl is a large woman who hurriedly gives him his wine but takes one look at Arya and scoffs.

"This ones too young for wine, I'll water down some ale." She says.

"Ha! And charge me for it full. Bugger off woman." He growls at her.

Arya sits there staring at her empty cup. She's not thirsty or hungry anyway. Not for food at least. She listens to the men about the tavern talk. There's a sheep herder with no sheep, a singer plucking at a harp in the corner, an old man with a cane and a cat and several young squires sit talking at the center table. Their knights are most likely in the back rooms with some girls.

"Tickled her silly he did. The old girl had no idea where Beric was but sung like a bird anyway!" A blond-haired squire who was missing one tooth laughed. Another one with a crooked nose joined in "I heard she promised him her daughters. The old man looked at her and said if they look like their mother he'll have to put them down."

Arya glared at them but they paid her no mind. They took turns mimicking the woman's cries. Without her realizing, her hand now rested on the dagger at her waist.

"Easy wolf girl." The Hound said.

"They'd scream like girls if the rats tried to eat them through," she snarled at him and went back to glaring at the squires. The Hound looked at her and creased his brow.

"More wine!" he yelled loudly, loud enough to attract the attention of the squires. The Hound turned in his chair and glared at them with his hand on the pommel of his sword. "It's too loud in here. A man can't enjoy his wine in quiet." He lifted his chin at the squires who all suddenly seemed to find the wood of the table more interesting.

The serving woman brought him more wine and wordlessly he filled Arya's cup, ignoring the look the woman gave him. They drank in silence.

* * *

3.

"Why do you hate your brother so?" Arya asked the Hound one day, when she'd gotten up enough courage and was sitting far enough away from him he couldn't swipe her with his sword.

"Elder brothers and sisters are sometimes curses for the younger ones," he remarked "Don't you hate your lady sister or do you miss her like you miss your headless dad?" Ignoring his barb Arya paused at the thought of her sister. It would have been a year since she'd seen her or maybe longer. She would not approve of the things she'd done and of the killing.

"It was fun to tease her." She could have said a lot more but stopped because she knew the Hound wanted to hear. He was pretending not to care, instead he kept his eyes on the fire and turned the sausages, but he'd been turning the same sausage for several minutes now and hers was being burnt.

"The little toad Joffrey enjoyed teasing her too." The Hound said. His voice was flat and she couldn't tell if he was goading her again.

"Not like him". Sometimes she hated her sister, but she reserved the much greater hate for the real monsters such as those on her list.

"She's the only blood I have left." Arya realised. Well, her and Jon but he was on the Wall and had a new set of brothers now. She felt bad that she didn't think of Sansa as often as she did Jon. The good memories had been hard to find since Kings Landing and the road and Harrenhall.

Sometimes they'd sneak into the kitchens to steal lemon cakes. Arya would be the lookout and Sansa would wrap as many cakes as she could carry in her dress (and Arya would remark that at least a dress was good for something) and they'd take them back to their chambers or share them with Bran and Rickon.

One day when Arya was sick after she'd been riding all morning in the rain, Sansa had sung her a song about lemon cakes to ease her sleep. Arya had been shaking with the sweats at the time and later told Sansa she didn't remember her singing her stupid song. But sometimes when she was sick like that, when she couldn't stop shaking she'd remember her sister's voice and the way it seem to heal her.

"If the talk is to be believed she's a Lannister now." He spat his words out and stabbed hard at a sausage.

"She'd never marry the imp." Arya stated.

"Maybe she didn't get to choose."

"We could take the Kings Road and find out." The thought drifted on the wind between them.

He handed her a sausage and a wedge of cheese and they ate in silence, listening to the dull cackle of the fire.

In the morning though they kept walking east down the High Road.


	9. Hot Pie

They had been riding for hours when they came across the village hidden on the banks of the Gods Eye. It was abandoned like all the rest and they'd have kept going if not for the small berry bush growing between some rocks. Arya had never seen Hot Pie dismount his horse so fast, save for the occasions he fell off.

They stripped the bush bare and drank enough water until they felt as full as they had in days. Afterwards Arya, Gendry and Hot Pie lay on the grass in a small patch of light that broke through the clouds. She was still worried that Roose Bolton's men might find them but something in her mind told her they'd be safe here for the moment. The village was overrun with paw prints, and not the kind from common dogs.

Hot Pie was complaining about his saddle sores. And then he started complaining about how he was hungry again. And then he started complaining about his name, and how it wasn't as scary as The Mountain or The Hound.

"You could be Cold Pickle" Arya said whilst ripping tufts of long grass from beside her.

"Or Warm Tart" Gendry added and joined her game.

"Soggy Stew"

"Bowl'O Brown"

"Chopped Onion" she proclaimed, "and you'll make your enemies cry"

"Your sigil could be a pig on a spit with an apple in its mouth."

"Or a big chicken leg" she said excited. "Or two chicken legs crossed like swords."

It wasn't really funny but they laughed until their eyes watered.

Hot Pie wasn't in the mood to be mocked though and he'd run off into the woods. As Arya watched him go she bit her lip to stay the guilt growing.

"We should find him" Gendry said as he pulled himself from the ground. He didn't look at her and she knew he felt the guilt in his belly too.

They split up to look for him, knowing he wouldn't have travelled far from them. It took her a few minutes to follow the trail of broken branches but when she found him he was sitting under a tree with his knees up to his chest. His face flushed and his nose snotty.

"We were just playing is all." Arya felt the guilt inside her rise again. Hot Pie was her friend after all. Her pack. But he had been complaining for hours and eventually she'd got sick of listening.

"Easy for you to say, you've had lots of names and none of them as stupid as Hot Pie." He wiped at his nose with his sleeve and turned away from her. Arya growled, she'd come to apologise but he was acting like a baby.

"You can just pick another name. It doesn't have to be a food" she tells him. She'd had many names already, some she'd chosen, others had been chosen for her.

As if to show him she tried to think of some real names this time. She thought of her brothers. Of Jon Snow who was a bastard and named after the North. Bran who was named after her father's brother. Robb and Rickon, no doubt named after the Starks before them. But she didn't want to give him those names, they belonged to her brothers and Hot Pie was no wolf. She thought of her old dancing master Syrio Forel but such a name did not suit Hot Pie. Maybe big Hodor but his name was all he had and she'd have felt bad to take it from him.

Arya sighed and sat down.

She was still thinking of names when he turned back to face her.

"I don't mind Hot Pie sometimes, I know its stupid but it reminds me of her."

He meant his mother, she realized.

"She taught me how to shape dough and make all sorts of tarts and pastries and pies." He went on and Arya listened this time. Really listened. He talked of how her fingers were long knots of muscle and bone and rough from years of work but when her calloused hands cupped his chubby ones they felt as soft as a silk gown.

He remembered crying with joy the first time she pulled bread from the oven. It must have been magic, he thought, and in a way it was the best kind. What good was a sorcerer who could set swords on fire if there was no food to eat?

His mother was not comely he knew, she had burns and scolds that spoke of a life in front of fires. Sometimes she could be mean and he'd be beaten with spoons or wet rags and once even a pork bone on the fingers.

"But she baked the best pie's in Kings Landing, even better than the royal bakers. Everyone had said so." He finished and stared at Arya as if to dare her to say otherwise.

She didn't. Instead she thought of how she become Nymeria, just for a short while and how it made her feel closer to home. Maybe that's how Hot Pie felt. She'd give anything to be Arya Horseface again if it meant she was back in Winterfell.

"Then keep it. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks." She told him.

"You be Hot Pie, Gendry will be Gendry and I'll be…" she paused not sure what to say. She couldn't remember if she was Arry or Arya or Nan or Weasel.

"Arry" he said. "I'm Hot Pie, Gendry is Gendry and your Arry."

She nodded, but only because he looked so sure and said it with such conviction.


	10. Howl

"What's happening here?" Gendry bellowed.

"We're just playing…" a child with curly brown hair and a bucket helm said sheepishly. He knew Gendry didn't like it when they played games of knights and kings.

Sometimes they'd choose a king and hold court. Girls and boys would stand before him, confess their crimes and pay their penance. "Make your bed, clean the floors, eat some dirt!" the king would say. Other times they would recreate great battles like the Battle of the Bells or the Battle of the Trident. They would use sticks as swords and sometimes borrow the broken chainmail that Gendry had not yet mended.

Today however they were recreating something more recent.

A read haired boy, who they sometimes called Rowan the Red, pulled a makeshift cloth crown from his head. "It's okay, The Young Wolf won't die in this one, instead we're going to capture the Frey's and hold them hostage," he argued.

"Hey!" clearly the child playing Walder Frey wasn't told of this plan.

"You'll do not such thing." Gendry's tone was icy cold. Gendry was angry a lot but never at them; only when they stole his steel for their games did he sometimes yell. This anger was different.

"You'll stop these games. And if I ever hear talk of the Stark's, the Frey's and the Lannister's I'll take a strap to all of you." The threat was enough to quiet the children who sulked back under their covers.

When they were all in bed Gendry left the room and returned to the forge. There was always work to be done and the children's loud games had only served to slow his progress.

He worked the fire again and grabbed for his hammer. He was about to raise it when he noticed the shadow moving by the door.

"Sorry" said Rowan the Red as he came to sit across the fire. The child enjoyed watching Gendry work and one day hoped to help in the forge. Gendry didn't want to crush his dreams but the boy was often sickly and couldn't lift a broadsword. Save for organizing tools and polishing the steel he wasn't fit for much else.

"Is Lady Stoneheart going to eat us?" he asked and Gendry snorted.

"Not unless you're a Frey." Gendry said and started work on his sword. They stayed like that for a while, just the sound of the fire and steel hitting steel. Rowan was about to fall asleep in his position until he heard the wolves howling in the forest around them. Gendry paused but only for a moment. Rowan moved closer to Gendry.

"Are you sacred of the wolves?" Rowan asked.

"Those on two legs and four." Gendry answered but the child didn't understand so he set aside his hammer. "Come on now, don't you know wolves like to eat little children who stay up too late." He led the boy out of the forge and back to his room.

"Willow says when the wolves howl it's their way of calling to each other. Do you think they're calling to Lady Stoneheart?" Rowan asked as he got into the bed he shared with two other kids.

"She's no Stark, not anymore. All the Starks are dead." Gendry said.

"They must be calling to someone…" Rowan yawned before he shut his eyes.

Gendry frowned. In the forest the wolves kept howling. Instead of going to his room or back to the forge, he found himself outside the inn listening to the sounds that travelled across the wind. He closed his eyes and just briefly he allowed himself to hope, that maybe she could hear them too.


	11. Valar Morghulis

Ned finds him in the yards sparring with three knights at once. He's quick, Ned notices, his sword moves so fast he's only sure it's there at all because he hears the clang of steel on steel. He spins and steps around the bigger men, his footwork smooth and swift making good knights look clumsy. His whole body moves as one with the sword and he never looks unbalanced. Like water, Ned thinks. He's met only few water dancers in battle but they were sellswords and nothing like Syrio Forel, the former first sword of Braavos.

It doesn't take long for the knights to tire, their movements become sluggish and their heavy swords drop just a fraction. Syrio chooses these moments to dart in and strike them on the knuckles, as if he was scolding children. Eventually he's disarmed them all and Ned can hear him pronounce each knight dead, dead and dead. The knights look at him in anger and awe.

Aware of his audience, the Bravo turns and greets Ned, giving him an exaggerated bow and dropping the tip of his sword before walking towards him.

"Syrio Forel is honored to meet Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King." He says in the thick accent of the free cities.

"It is my honor, you fought very well." Ned gestures to the knights who are still rubbing their knuckles. The man smiles and rolls his shoulders.

"They are slow and blind, Syrio Forel takes no pleasure in defeating the weak."

Ned believes him and for a moment he worries the Braavosi might find his request an insult. After all he was used to training men, not girls.

"May we walk?" Ned asks instead. He leads the foreign man away from the sparring grounds and prying eyes. "How have you found the Red Keep?"

Many men from the free cities seemed to enjoy the flamboyant ways of the court. Or perhaps they were attracted by the money and power. Ned is interested to know what attracts this Bravo.

"Westeros is full of sharp swords and blunt minds." Syrio Forel responds and Ned almost smiles.

"Will you enter the tourney whilst you're here?" Some Bravos were lured into the mêlée but often their swift styles were no match for the brutality of men like Gregor Clegane. However Syrio Forel shakes his head.

Ned is curious, if the man is not here for the court or the tourney perhaps he has other motivations.

"Do you have family here?" He asks.

Syrio Forel stops walking and Ned worries he may have insulted the man. It is not his usual way to ask so many questions but he cannot trust his daughter to just anyone.

When the Bravo meets Ned's gaze there's something in his eyes; curiosity, sadness, pride, he can't be sure.

"The sword takes all Lord Eddard. Your ears, your eyes, your nose, your hopes and dreams, your loves and hates. A sword defends and attacks but it has no family."

His words strike Ned hard. The man came with an excellent reputation but perhaps his own men were just as capable of teaching his daughter the basics of swordplay.

As if to answer his doubts, Ned discovers he's led them both to the Godswood. The shadows from the trees extend in the dusk light, reaching in long slender lines to embrace both men, the Old Gods way of welcoming them. Before Ned can respond the Bravo grins and leans on one leg.

"Forgive me Lord Eddard, but Syrio Forel must ask himself why the Hand of the King chooses to seek out a sword of Braavos. For protection? No, he has other men with swords…" the smaller man strokes his chin. Ned yields.

"I would like to seek your services, but not for myself. My daughter has found herself a Bravos blade and has her heart set on keeping it. If she is to own the weapon she must know how to wield it and how to respect it.

"Just so" the Bravo nodded.

"My daughter is willful but young. The basics of swordplay, thrust and parry, will be enough." He added, "Of course I can pay you well…"

The Bravo contemplated his offer, pausing in thought before declaring, "Syrio Forel will teach this child the water dance."

Ned exhaled in relief. "It is better for all if no one else knows of the training." Ned knew the Queen did not like his youngest daughter and this would do the relationship no good. And if word ever got back to Catelyn…

The Bravo nods, a grin almost on his lips again. "A man sees the Hand of the King has few friends and many enemies here. Do not worry Lord Eddard, Syrio Forel is a dance master and young girls are allowed to dance, are they not?"

Ned smiles, his daughter will enjoy that. "Thank you. I'll see to it you have everything you need. You may start when you like."

He moved to leave but the Bravo added. "You wished to know what draws a Sword of Braavos to your shores?" Syrio Forel looked longingly over the water towards Blackwater Bay and beyond. "The God of Death comes for us all Lord Eddard, and when he does we do not run. _Valar Morghulis_."

All men must die, Ned knew. But not his family, not his daughters, not whilst he still lived.


	12. Lost

They search all night and into the morning but they don't find her. They find some horse tracks though and Lord Beric gives a small nod to Lem Lemoncloak who takes Anguy and two others and heads into the forest.

Gendry doesn't stop looking either and by morning he's dirty, shivering and his throat is hoarse from yelling her name. Harwin tries to calm him by saying that she used to go missing in Winterfell and Kings Landing but Gendry won't have it. There's a feeling in his chest that's tightening.

On the second morning the men start crowding around a tree trunk a little way off the road. Gendry's breath catches in his throat and he pushes his way to the front of the crowd. Thoros and Lord Beric are already there, gesturing to something carved in the tree.

"What does it say?" Gendry asks.

"It's her name," Harwin tells him. At first Gendry's confused and then his whole face goes pale, he knows that sometimes folk bury their dead under trees and carve their names in the trunk. Harwin notices and reassures him this isn't like that. "She's trying to tell us which way she's going."

"Why would she do that if she didn't want to be found?" He asks but deep down he knows the answer. Their scouts hadn't seen the Hound since she'd gone missing and now it seems all but sure he's taken her.

They make camp in an abandoned holdfast a little ways up the road. Thoros sits staring into the flames and Lord Beric takes a rare sip of wine. Gendry is awake and ready for his watch. It's part of his duties now that he's one of them, now he's a knight. He doesn't feel any different though, he just feels like there's a cold steel sitting in his stomach.

"What do dogs do to wolves?" Gendry asks Beric. The Lighting Lord puts a hand on his shoulder but doesn't say anything. The next day they don't find her name on any trees.


	13. Lyanna

"You shouldn't indulge that behavior," her mother says. They're in the kitchens after supper, unaware that Arya is hiding under the table with half a strawberry pie.

"She beat them both." Ned says with a touch of pride in his voice. Arya smiled, she'd challenged Theon and Robb to race on horseback earlier that day. They'd raced all around Winterfell and in the end she'd crossed the North Gate first. Robb said he let her win but she saw how he was urging his horse on towards the end.

"And if she'd fallen or the horse stumbled?" Her mother's voice was soft and she could hear her father sigh.

"Aye, perhaps I should be sterner. Sometimes she reminds me so much of Lyanna I find it hard to refuse." Arya risks a peek at the sound of her aunt's name. Her mother's hands gently cradle her father's.

"I know your want to let her go but it will only make it harder when she must grow up. Let her stay beautiful and wild but alive..." They leave the kitchens after that, their footsteps and words growing quiet.

Arya pulls herself out from under the table. She knows her father misses his sister terribly, though he rarely speaks of her. It's why he lets her wear leathers and ride with Robb and Jon and play with the town folk. Her father had once said Arya looked like Lyanna. But Lyanna was the queen of love and beauty and Arya had never heard anyone call her Lyanna Horseface.

She leaves the half eaten pie on the table, suddenly overcome with a desire to see her aunt. Winterfell had no portraits though but Arya knew where she could find her likeness.

In the dark she sneaks past Fat Tom easy enough, he's always tired and sleepy after dinner. The ironwood door was harder to open but she'd managed to borrow a piece of steel from Mikken's forge that she could use as leverage. Well, she hadn't told Mikken she was borrowing it but she'd return it tonight before he noticed.

Once inside and with a lit candle, she remembers the way Robb had guided her when he and Jon tried to scare her. She studies the features of past kings as she moves through the crypts. Some look like her father, others have long beards and angry cheeks or shaven heads. She smirks at the king whose eyebrows join together, maybe the mason forgot to separate those.

Eventually she reaches her father's father. He doesn't look as angry as the past kings but he's not smiling either. Her father's brother sits beside him, the one Bran is named for. He looks a lot like father and uncle Benjen, she thinks. The Stark look of long faces and solemn brows.

Her eyes move to the woman beside them. Lyanna Stark, her father's sister and queen of love and beauty. It's hard to tell if she's beautiful by looking at the stone with such a small flame. Her face is long and she looks less cold, she might even be smiling in the right light. Her hair flows around her and a crown of blue winter roses sits upon her head.

Apart from the shape of her face Arya didn't think they looked much the same. She runs her hand along the sword that lies across her aunt's stone knees. It's covered in dust but it hasn't started to rust just yet. Robb says the swords keep the spirits of the dead in the tombs. Arya doesn't think she'd want to be stuck down here in stone forever. Especially if Jon couldn't be there too.

"Ouch!" She yelps and drops of blood spill on the sword edge and at the feet of the statue. She brings her cut finger to her lips. The sword is still very sharp. Ignoring the sting she bends down and stands nose to nose with the stone direwolf curled at her aunt's feet. It's snarling as if to scare off anyone who dares come near its master. Arya scratches it behind the ears and rubs the dust off its nose.

She looks at her aunt one last time before she leaves. Maybe if her aunt had carried a sword and had a real direwolf to protect her she might still be alive and they could ride around Winterfell together. Her father would have liked that.


	14. Trade

She sat in the darkness, calmly sharpening her blade below the Tower of Ghosts. Hot Pie and Gendry had still not arrived and maybe they wouldn't come at all. They didn't like her much after the weasel soup. Sometimes she didn't like herself much for it either. She thought the northman would be different but they weren't. Maybe that's why Gendry and Hot Pie didn't want to come with her to Winterfell, not after Roose Bolton and his Goat.

She had liked watching Gendry work in the smithy. Before the weasel soup she'd steal away when Pinkeye was too drunk to notice. She could sneak into the forge and watch him hammer and shape and bend. Sometimes he didn't like his own work and would growl that the steel had been too cold or too hot or he'd used the wrong anvil or the wrong tools. Sometimes he'd say it like he was reminding himself but other times he'd say things out loud as if he was trying to teach her.

Now though when she went into the forge, which wasn't often, he just glared at her and worked silently. The same could be said for Hot Pie.

She had watched him too as he gutted and salted fish, made sweet smelling tarts and chopped all sorts of roots and meats and vegetables. He'd taught her to roll oranges before you cut them and to do the same with lemons when making lemon cakes. To make them juiciest, he said. He taught her which spices to use when; cinnamon here, saffron there, both combined with soft meat and barley were even better.

Hot Pie loved to talk as he cooked and loved that she listened. Not many people listened to him, usually Arya herself didn't. Now though when he talked to her he sounded scared, like he just wanted her to go away.

She continued to sharpen her blade. Maybe they wouldn't come. Maybe they were never her pack. Her fathers words washed over her again. _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_. But the wolves outside Harrenhal had called to her and she'd listened and tried to put her pack back together.

It's then she hears Hot Pie huff as he trips on a rock.

"There's a guard on that postern", said Gendry quietly. "I told you there would be." He doesn't look happy but he's there. She tells them to stay. Hot Pie said something about making owl noises and she brushes him off.

Hot Pie was born for the kitchens the same way Gendry was born to wield a hammer. But she was born a wolf, not a mouse or sheep or weasel and there was a guard standing between her pack and freedom. She gripped the sharpened dagger even tighter. They had taught her their trades, now it was time she teach them hers.


	15. Guide You Home

It's early morning when Bran steals out his window, his hands and feet finding the worn holds in the stone that lead him across the roof. He crawls quietly, like a shadowy black cat, and makes his descent on the other side of the stables, careful not to wake the castle full of sleeping lords and ladies.

Though it's missing one lady it seems, as he finds Arya whispering to a chestnut mare, dressed in a worn tunic and boots. She was fastening the saddle on the horse, the cloth emblazoned with a snarling grey direwolf.

"Where are you going?" he asks. They weren't supposed to leave the castle whilst the Frey's were there. Winterfell was currently hosting the Frey's of the Crossing and there was even to be a feast tomorrow in honor of both houses.

Arya spun around quickly at his voice and glared. "I'm not going anywhere," she lied badly.

"A lady shouldn't travel on her own." He hissed, shocked at his sister's behavior.

"I'm no lady," she growled. Bran was tempted to agree. Sometimes when Sansa wasn't busy with Jeyne she would play at Knights with him. She'd be the lady trapped in the tower and he'd be the knight to break down the door, slay the dragon and save her. But whenever he played with Arya she wanted to be a knight too.

"You shouldn't leave the castle." Bran said. If they discovered her missing it would look bad in front of the Frey's. And of course it would be harder from him to sneak away too.

Tired of his questions she bit back. "Shouldn't you be with the Frey boys?" she asked and Bran paled. He didn't like the Frey boys; they were older and bigger than him and laughed when he practiced with his wooden sword. He was supposed to spend the day with them but didn't much want to.

Arya raised an eyebrow and knew she'd won.

"I'm going to winter town. Jory said the mummers troupe are staying there before the feast tomorrow. He says they perform different shows in the villages…less boring shows."

She pulled herself onto the horse and looked a tiny thing sitting on its back. She gently urged the horse forward and when she was almost out the stable she paused and looked at Bran with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Want to come too?"

At first he was going to decline, but then he thought of the Frey boys and their jests. He grinned when she helped him onto the horse.

They made good time in the early morning light and Bran only had to chastise Arya once when she wanted to leap a log in the road instead of going around. When they reached the winter town the sun was high in the sky and the warmth felt pleasant on Bran's skin.

Arya brought the horse to a halt outside of the inn and Bran helped her tie it securely to the weathered wooden rails. The small pair earned a few curious stares from onlookers and Bran's head was dizzy with a mix of guilt and fear and excitement. It wasn't the first time he'd gone missing from his lessons, but he'd never done it often and he'd never left Winterfell before.

They walked tentatively around the town at first, ignoring the growing crowd in the square. Bran's senses were overcome by sweet smells wafting from a pie cart and he found himself staring at rows of perfumed pastries. Arya joined him and they took turns pointing to different treats with glassy eyes.

The baker was a grey old man who looked at their horse before smiling a tiny smile. He brought a finger to his lips, glanced to his left and then right and when he was sure no one was looking he produced two buttery berry tarts. He passed them to Bran and Arya and put a finger to his lips again. The siblings thanked him profusely before they skipped from the cart and devoured the treats in the shadow of a stony tower.

Bran thought the tart tasted like summer, all sweet and tangy like and he grinned to see his sister had wolfed hers down just as quickly. They sat together enjoying their rebelliousness and smiling like fools, watching the many people wandering around the town, shouting, selling and laughing.

Bran's watch was broken when a hoop bumped into his leg. He picked it up and looked to see where it came from and met the gaze of a little blonde boy with stick still in hand. The boy was small and looked at Bran wearily. He felt Arya bump him in the shoulder.

"Can we play?" she asked. Bran rolled the hoop back, hoping it would be seen as a sign of good faith but the boy simply grabbed the hoop and ran.

Bran tried to hide his disappointment; sometimes all he wanted to do was play with other kids his age. Robb and Jon and Theon were too old now they said. They Frey boys were only a year older but they were mean sometimes.

Arya wouldn't be dissuaded though and pulled Bran along as she followed the boy. They found him in the back alleys where a mob of children had gathered. Bran gazed at the many kids; young and old, tall and short, thin and round, they all ran about with dirty hands, dirty faces and toothy smiles. He felt a hand grab at his cloak and turned just in time to be caught in a bear hug by a boy in a blindfold.

"Got you!" he laughed, pulling the blindfold from his eyes to reveal two squinty blue orbs. He tucked the blindfold into Bran's hand. "He's the Hoodsman now!" the boy announced and all the children scattered again.

Arya grinned at him, helping him tie the blindfold before whispering, "you'll never catch me." Bran thought to be smart by grabbing for her but his fingers hit empty air.

Nothing could wipe the smile off his face throughout the games. He was quick and well balanced from his time spent climbing the walls and roofs of Winterfell and he easily caught another child who wondered too close. They played the Hoodsman's Blind and Catch the Cow, Arya didn't like it when she was caught and had to be a cow. Bran played skittles with three older boys and Arya taught the girls how to fling horseshoes.

By the time the other children were called away the sun sat high in the sky. Bran was exhausted and crashed into the soft grass. Arya tumbled next to him, her clothes all dusty and torn in places. Bran breathed in the smell of grass and sweat and thought that whatever their mother and father had waiting for them when they got back, this small adventure was worth it.

"We still need to see the mummers troupe," Arya said as she stood and wiped at the grass stains on her pants. Bran could hear the sound of music and laughter coming from across the town square.

"Come on!" Arya urged and pulled him up by the hand. She guided him towards the square where the mummers troupe was performing for the crowd. They were acting out some sort of play where a woman with golden hair would hit and tease a large fat man with antlers. Arya laughed so hard she snorted when the woman kicked the man with antlers and he bounced on his round belly. The crowd was yelling and hollering and Bran found his view was soon blocked as more and more people filled the square.

Arya huffed and kicked at the leg of a man in front of her. Bran reached for her to pull her back but before he could her victim turned around and grinned.

"What do we have here? A tiny squirrel?" The man was large, his chest as thick as a barrel and each arm as wide as Arya herself. Bran silently hoped his sister wouldn't answer back for once.

"I'm not a squirrel," Arya growled, "and you're blocking my view stupid!"

Bran sighed, he should have known better. He was about to apologize for his sister when a deep laugh erupted from the Barrel and he mussed her hair.

"Aye I s'pose I am" he grinned and Bran noticed he was missing half his teeth. Before Arya could swat at him again he picked her up and heaved her onto his shoulders. Bran had time gasp before he found himself perched like a squirrel on a man just as tall. Arya grinned at him and started hollering at the mummers who were playing at a tourney.

They watched the show from their human towers. When the man beneath him laughed Bran had to pull on the collar of his tunic to steady himself. He liked being so high though. From there he could see over the rest of the crowd and when the wind picked up it almost felt like flying.

The mummers performed two more skits and then the crowd began to fan out in a circle. Bran could hear the sounds of bells and strings and watched as people began to dance. His eyes followed the tops of their heads as they moved in well-timed patterns around the square. He heard someone yell his name and saw Arya, smiling and twirling and running in circles with the townsfolk. The man brought him back to his feet and Arya pulled him into the mob.

When the mummers took their bows the sky had begun to darken and both siblings were breathless and beginning to feel the toll of their day.

"We should be heading home whilst there's still light." Bran told his sister who sighed but nodded.

Leaving the town, they waved back at the townsfolk who smiled and winked at them. The sun had gone beyond the horizon and Bran was left to trust Arya to steer them back through the darkness. He dozed lightly whilst reliving his adventure, enjoying the day spent away from maesters and lords. He'd even enjoyed Arya's presence and was happy for once that she was as wild as she was. The feeling for his sister didn't seem to last long though.

"Are we lost?" he asked with sleep in his voice. It felt like they'd been going in circles.

"Of course not," Arya said but bit her lip. She rode towards some trees, staring at the trunk in the dark before heading off again. They wandered for what must have been an hour and eventually Arya sighed and pulled the horse up on a hill. From there all they could see was more hills and woods.

"We might need to go back…" she whispered, only Bran thought she didn't know which way that was either.

He tightened his grip on his sister and suddenly felt small, surrounded by acres of forests and hidden under an endless sea of stars…

"We can go by the stars!" Bran said, realizing how bright they shined, as if begging to lead them home. "See, there's the Moonmaid, and there's the red wanderer. We can follow them to Winterfell."

His sister breathed in deeply, hesitating, but Bran was sure. Arya listened in her lessons only sometimes but the stars were old friends to him. When he'd run across the rooftops and climbed to the top of the heart trees they would light his way and greet him in the cool summer air.

Arya seemed to want to argue but held it in. "Tell me which way," she said and readied the horse.

"We should follow the red wanderer, the smith, he'll take us home." Bran pointed over her shoulder to the bright red star. Arya nodded and they began.

"Maester Luwin says the sailors use the stars to guide their way home. All over the world, different folk have different names for them but they lead to the same places." He remembered his lessons well. He liked the idea of always having a map to Winterfell. When he grew up and was a knight as good as his brothers he could travel all over Westeros and guide himself home just by the stars.

His sister must have had the same idea.

"Tell me." She whispered as she kept a steady pace towards the star.

Bran did. He told her of the constellations, and the stars with their different names. He told her how Old Nan said you could burn your fingers on them in the Eyrie, and how travelers tried to find gold from fallen stars at Starfall.

"But sometimes you can't see them in Braavos," Bran said. "Maester Luwin says the weather gets foggy and hides them, that's why they built the Titan so tall to guide them."

"Then I won't get lost in Braavos." Arya declared. There was something hidden in her voice. Maybe she really did mean to travel the world, like a wandering knight or lone wolf. His sister was no lady, he thought, but if she ever got lost he'd rescue her anyway, and they'd find their way back to Winterfell by the stars.

"There, there's the north gate!" Arya said excited and smiled at him before driving the horse on towards home.

The laughed and celebrated their day of fun and freedom and adventure. They only stopped laughing when they saw their mother, standing at the gate with a glare as fierce as a dragon.


	16. A Title

**Also known as the one Gendry realized he valued the title of Friend more than Knight.**

"And so they escaped the burned castle and the evil Lord Goat. They were heading towards Arry's home when they came across a band of outlaws. An old grumpy man, an archer and a bard with more songs than sense"

"Like Tom" a child chipped in. Gendry smirked.

"Like Tom. The outlaws weren't really outlaws though. They swore to protect the small folk and took in The Bull and Hot Pie and Arry. They fed them and washed them and gave them a place to sleep."

Gendry looked at his audience of sleepy children still hanging on his every word. It made him feel nervous. It was getting late anyway and probably about time he finished the story.

"Hot Pie stayed on at an inn where he baked for travellers who came from all over the lands. The Bull became a knight and swore to protect the small folk, including little orphan boys and girls, and Arry…" he paused. The children looked at him expectantly and his heart went cold in his chest.

"Arry went home and became the lady of her castle," he lied.

The children continued staring, wide-eyed and silent. He looked back at them awkwardly.

"The end" Gendry said.

.

"That was a terrible ending." Small Paul whined, scrunching up his face.

"No! Arry should be a knight too! She was braver than The Bull and Hot Pie." Tansy huffed. A few of the girls nodded too.

"Why didn't they stay together? Did they have a fight?"

"Why couldn't Hot Pie be a knight as well?"

"What happened to the red-haired man? Did they see him again?"

"The Bull isn't that bright is he?"

Gendry shifted uncomfortably, struggling to keep up with their questions. He looked to Willow who just smiled and backed out the door, leaving him to explain.

"They grew older…" he stammered, and apart. The children didn't seem to accept his answer.

"They should have stayed together-"

"Well it's how the story ends," he growled. Suddenly Gendry didn't like having to explain himself to children. They didn't seem to care though and started arguing among themselves on how his story should have ended.

.

He sighed and with tired steps he walked out of the back room away from the hearth and to the front of the inn.

He wanted to tell them that life didn't have a happy ending, that monsters won and good men died, that friends were torn apart by war and duty and their own hearts.

He wanted to tell them the truth that burned at him more than the forge fires ever could. That the Bull became a knight but his title, his sword and his oath had done nothing to save his friend.

Instead he sat himself down on the creaky wooden seat and stared at the bloodstain that had seeped so far into the floor no amount of scrubbing would ever make it clean. In his nightmares it was her blood that stained his knight's sword with every swing.

.

It was six days before the brotherhood returned to the inn. When Tom was well drunk Gendry pulled him aside and told him he intended to leave, just for a few days.

"And where would our young knight be going?" Tom slurred. Gendry felt a slight pang of guilt but then he had always done what they'd asked him. He was a good knight.

"A knight's allowed to have friends isn't he?" Gendry growled.

Tom laughed, "Aye boy, why not! I have many and fine friends they are." He wiggled his eyebrows but Gendry ignored him.

Instead he went to the stables and saddled a reddish palfrey the brotherhood had brought back with them. He left that night, with a vague sense of direction and enough food to last him three days. It took him four nights to get where he was going.

.

His heart beat a little quicker the morning he entered the Inn of the Kneeling Man. There were three other travelers breaking their fast but Gendry wasn't concerned with them. Instead his eyes fell on the chubby boy carrying empty bowls from the tables. Only he wasn't a boy anymore, Hot Pie looked almost a man now. He was a little taller, a little stronger and had a shadow of a beard growing across his jaw. He dropped a bowl when he saw Gendry.

Hot Pie's eyes lit up and Gendry walked towards him. He was about to offer his hand in greeting when the younger man caught him in a hug, flour-covered hands leaving marks across the back of his tunic. Gendry paused a moment before returning the embrace.

When they parted Hot Pie led him to a table before running back to the kitchens and returning with a full bowl of broth and some ale.

"It's been a while," Gendry asked between gulps. "Are you well?"

"I'm alright. Sharna's husband died a while back, got real sick when the cold came in. Me and the other boy are all she's got now though you wouldn't know it how she yells at us. It's been hard but most of the time we got food and the roof don't leak." Hot Pie said whilst rubbing the back of his head. "And you?"

Gendry chewed his bread a little longer than necessary before replying. He managed a half-smile.

"A bit less food and a few more leaks but otherwise I'm here."

"Have you learned to use that?" Hot Pie nodded to his sword.

"A little, I'm still better with a hammer." Gendry pushed the empty bowl aside. "What about this?" he gestured to the stubble growing around the younger man's chin.

"Makes me look a bit older, now the husband isn't around it helps to look a bit fierce." Gendry laughed, the first time in a long time and the rest of the morning they spent time trading bits and pieces of their lives.

.

In the evening Gendry helped him with his work, rolling barrels of ale or even fixing the leaky roof. When they sat around the fire that night his muscles were sore but he felt warmer than he had in years.

"You'll leave on the morrow?" Hot Pie asked. "Shame, we could use a knight around here."

"I'm not much of a knight" Gendry scoffed. "I was born to raise a hammer, not a sword."

"War makes us all something we're not." Hot Pie looked at him with dark eyes. "The Red Priest and Lady Stoneheart have been past…"

Gendry sighed.

"I've heard the talk, but I wanted to ask you. Arya was my friend too. Some say she didn't die at the Saltpans; she could have travelled to the free cities…"

He hated the hope in the younger man's voice. He had hoped as well, and maybe the boy he had been would have gone to the Saltpans, thought of stepping into the water that touched a far away shore and wished her back, hoping the tides would carry his words across the ocean to where she might be.

But that was long ago now.

"She's dead." He told him.

"You believe that then." Gendry was a little stunned at Hot Pie's tone but no sooner had he said it he smiled and changed the subject to a recipe a Dornish man had taught him.

.

They talked some more about where they had been and what they had done. In Hot Pie's case, what he'd cooked. They talked until the sun rose again and Gendry had to leave.

Hot Pie pulled together enough rations to last his journey and offered him his hand, "Knight or smith, you'll always be my friend."

Gendry smiled, pushing away his hand and caught him in a hug instead. "I'll see you when this war is over."

When he left Hot Pie his heart was still warm. He travelled in stinging rain but didn't feel the cold. On his last night before returning to the inn he camped at the base of a tree and dreamed of a time when the war was done and he could laugh with his friend again.

When he woke though, he found himself under a large oak tree with acorns all around him. His heart grew cold once more and he wiped the wetness from his face, cursing at the clear sky above.


	17. Left

Gared walked from the inn with his pockets a little heavier. The innkeeper had yielded easily enough after a swift beating. Most of them did in these times. He would have been tempted to spend more time with the woman but he'd seen the serving boy wander out back and knew he'd return soon. Besides the woman looked too much like a fighter and with the coin he'd stolen he'd be able to buy a few more welcoming whores.

He took a deep breath as he stood outside the inn and eyed the dead men hanging in the trees. Long ago he may have been a Northman and felt for the wolves that dangled from those branches, but now he was his own man. He'd take all the gold and women he wanted and no lord could tell him no.

"Stop!" he heard the yell behind him.

The fat serving boy was running towards him with a large pot in hand. Gared laughed at the sight and swatted at the boy with the blunt of his sword. He fell onto his round belly and groaned.

"I wasn't going to kill you boy, but now maybe I will and then maybe I'll go back and enjoy that woman inside there."

"Harm him and I'll kill you." The voice shocked him away from the boy and he raised his sword as he turned to face the intruder. He almost dropped it when he discovered it was a woman.

She was a small thing, dressed in men's clothes with short brown hair and her eyes cast low. He hadn't seen her when he'd stepped outside the inn but she must have been there and he wondered how he'd missed her.

"Aren't you a pretty little thing," he grinned. Despite the men's clothes she was pretty, prettier than the woman innkeeper and the whores he'd had his eyes on.

"There need not be a death here. Return the coins and leave." She told him with a blank stare. Gared's smile widened.

"How bout you and I leave together." He took a step towards her, already picturing in his mind the things he could do to her. She didn't flinch; instead she glanced briefly at the groaning boy on the ground before settling her hard gaze on him.

"You won't leave," she said. It was a statement, not a question. "Valar Morghulis" she whispered and drew a thin blade from her right hip. He watched her curiously as she held the blade in her right hand whilst her left extended in the air behind her.

Gared caught her eyes, a fierce grey and in the back of his mind he could recall echoes of northern lords, grey eyes and sharp teeth. Such a shame, he though whilst he raised his sword, she has such pretty eyes.

She waited patiently for him to make the first move. He felt his fingers tighten on his sword and sucked in a breath before he lunged to her right.

She deflected the blow, the force of his swing sending him over before he regained his balance just in time to block her blade from piercing his heart.

She was smart and she was quick. Rather than fight with power she fought with speed. When he swung in a downward arch that would have split her in two she simply stepped aside and his sword struck the dirt. He drove his sword at her heart but she pushed the tip of it wide with her own. She used his own strength against him and soon his movements became nervous, wary of putting all of his strength into each blow.

Whether she was struggling or not he couldn't tell. Her face was smooth and empty even when he managed to nick her right wrist. The muscles in her arms would tense a moment before she lunged but her eyes never gave away her aim. Deftly she struck him in his shoulder, he hissed and managed to strike at her right hand again.

As they danced away from each other he could see she was holding her blade lightly in her hand, breathing heavy and rolling her wrist which didn't move as fluidly as it should. He almost smiled and allowed himself a few deeper breaths. She was good, but he'd injured her sword hand and he could see his victory edging closer.

The clashed again and this time she lost the grip on her sword. He heard the young serving boy call out and he thought he had her then but she kicked at his knee, stalling him long enough for her to roll over and pick up her sword.

He felt the twinge in his knee and cursed.

"I've had enough of this girl. It ends now!" he yelled at her and raised his sword.

He could hear her snarl something under her breath and then her eyes met his again and he paused.

Quietly, almost unnoticed she moved the sword to her left hand.

"Yes, let's finish this."

The last thing Gared saw was those grey eyes. Like the old northern lords, he thought.

**A/N When I heard she was a lefty I always thought Arya would be sneaky like that.**


	18. Remember

She feels the wind falter, hears the shallow breath growing closer and breathes in the familiar scent that drifts amongst the sweet smells of pine and smoke and snow. Then she feels the intruder pause.

"You can sit with me, I won't bite if you won't." She grins and turns to face her youngest brother who is caught standing ten paces from her back.

He looks at her with a crooked smile but his eyes ask her a silent question. _Can you teach me how to do that._

She was tempted to tell him yes but as he stands before her at the tender age of ten, the same age she was when she learned so many things in Braavos, she thinks _no, no, no,_ _you'll not become faceless too._

He takes a seat beside her under the heart tree and in their father's spot. He sits close but leaves a comfortable distance between them. They are the wild Starks after all.

They sit in the Godswood for a time, just content to be in the others company. Eventually he leans over and peers at his reflection in the pond. She knows he's seen her do it many times, especially upon her return to Winterfell. She'd sit under the heart tree and stare at her reflection in an effort to relearn her true face.

It makes her sad to think he has the same look she had when she sat their trying to remember who she was.

She throws a pebble into the water, the resulting ripples distorting his reflection. He swings his head to stare at her.

"How did you remember who you were?" he asks but she hears his real question. _How do I remember who I am?_

He looks so lost and Arya isn't sure what to do so she lets instinct take over and reaches out to him. She grips his arm and the back of his head and holds him against her shoulder. It's not a tender affection but its all she can do and Rickon understands.

"How did I know I was Arya Stark? Were my eyes and my hair familiar to me? What of the shape of my jaw? Did a girl know her name, her true name, do she know of Arya Underfoot and Arya Horseface?

No. I learned many things in Braavos. Many, many things. Looks and names can change so easily brother.

It's those truths that were burned beyond my body that made me a Stark. That make me Arya. It's my memories of dancing in summer rainfalls with you and Bran, throwing vegetables at Sansa's dresses and standing on tip toes to walk as tall as Robb. It's Jon's smile when we'd speak the same words. It's fathers sense of honor and mothers sense of duty and the Old Gods that I once prayed to."

If she were her mother or Sansa she'd stroke his hair, but she was Arya, so instead all she could do was squeeze a little tighter.

"Who I am is in my love for my family. In my love for you."

For the first time she felt him embrace her back and he spoke into her shoulder. "But what if I don't remember them or you," he whispered.

She released her hold on him and turned his head to the two direwolves standing across the pond. Shaggydog stood tall at the edge of the bank with Nymeria beside him. "Then Shaggydog will remind you the same way Nymeria reminded me."


End file.
